I 


HE 

YEAR 


ER'S 


/  m 


\ 


OLIVER  HERFORD 

and 

SEWELL  COLLI 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


THE  SMOKER'S 
YEAR  BOOK 


- 


THE 

SMOKERS 
YEAR  BOOK 

The  verses 
'written  on  babcr 


Oliver  Herford 


The  pictures 
drawn  on  stone- 
by 

Sewell  CoJIins 


Thew 
publi 
r    by 

MOFFAT.YARD  &.  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK. 
1906 


Copyright,  1908,  by 
MOFFAT,  YARD    &    COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 


All  rights  reserved 
Published,  October,  1908 


JANUARY 


9830-T2 


JANUARY 

NOW  Time  the  harvester  surveys 
His  sorry  crops  of  yesterdays; 
Of  trampled  hopes  and  reaped  regrets, 
And  for  another  harvest  whets 
His  ancient  scythe,  eying  the  while 
The  budding  year  with  cynic  smile. 
Well,  let  him  smile;  in  snug  retreat 
I  fill  my  pipe  with  honeyed  sweet, 
Whose  incense  wafted  from  the  bowl 
Shall  make  warm  sunshine  in  my  soul, 
And  conjure  mid  the  fragrant  haze 
Fair  memories  of  other  days. 


FEBRUARY 


FEBRUARY 

BEND  you  n6w  before  the  shrine 
Of  the  good  Saint  Valentine. 
Show  to  him  your  broken  heart  - 
Pray  the  Saint  to  take  your  part. 
Should  he  intercede  in  vain 
And  the  maid  your  heart  disdain, 
Call  upon  Saint  Nicotine; 
He  will  surely  intervene. 
Bring  burnt  off'ring  to  his  feet, 
Incense  of  Havana,  sweet. 
Then  the  maiden's  shade  invoke, 

It  will  disappear  in  smoke! 
™ 


MARCH 


MARCH 

HERE  comes  bluff  March-  -a  cross 
between 

A  Jester  and  a  Libertine. 
He  loves  to  make  the  parson  race 
With  wicked  words  his  hat  to  chase; 
To  dye  with  compromising  rose 
The  pious  man's  abstemious  nose. 
The  ladies  hate  him,  though  he  shows 
A  pretty  taste  for  silken  hose. 
The  smoker  views  him  with  distrust, 
Shielding  his  last  match  from  his  gust. 
But  once  alight-  -his  holy  joy 
No  blast  from  Heaven  can  destroy ! 


APRIL 


APRIL 

LADY  April,  it  is  clear, 
Is  the  spoilt  child  of  the  Year. 
See  her  tears  about  to  start - 
Thus  she  melts  old  Winter's  heart. 
Now  the  gay  deceiving  thing 
Turns  and  plays  the  deuce  with  Spring. 
Winter  lingers  at  her  gate; 
Spring  grows  chilly  and  irate. 
I'd  go  home  if  I  were  he  — 
It  is  just  such  girls  as  she 
Make  a  fellow  thank  his  stars 
For  the  solace  of  cigars. 


. 


>-^wv. :;-'-.    "rfoii  U&Jfc&fef&i 


• 


MAY 


MAY 

LIKE  Brunhilda,  May  is  won 
By  the  kisses  of  the  Sun. 
Siegfried  like,  the  maid  he  takes 
In  his  arms  and  she  awakes 
To  the  tender  piping  sound 
Of  the  birds-  -while  all  around 
In  a  magic  fire  ring 
Purple  flames  of  Crocus  spring. 
Now  I  fill  my  fragrant  briar, 
Lo!  it  glows  with  gentle  fire, 
Wafting  scented  wreaths  of  love 
To  the  little  leaves  above. 


JUNE 


JUNE 


AV7HAT    so    rare    as    a    day    in 

VV  June  ? ' 

Thus  I  heard  the  poet  croon, 
To  the  month  of  roses  sweet, 
His  song  with  barometric  feet. 
Perfect  days  I  own  are  rare  — 
All  depends  on  how  you  fare. 
Can  a  day  be  perfect  to 
The  rose  that  has  not  sipped  the  dew? 
Can  the  Bee,  do  you  suppose, 
Hum,  that  has  not  sipped  the  rose  ? 
Can  there  be  for  Man,  I  say, 
Without  a  smoke,  a  perfect  day? 


m 


JULY 


JULY 

RED  rockets  skyward  rush  pell-mell 
And  fill  the  night  with  noise  and 

smell. 

The  stars  of  Heaven  look  down,  and  say: 
"So  this  is  Independence  Day! 
Poor  earth-born  stars,  it  makes  us  sad 
To  see  your  fire  work  like  mad 
To  make  a  Human  Holiday. 
Where  is  your  independence,  pray?' 
Whereat  I  woke-  -my  fire  was  low, 
My  pipe  was  out    Said  I:    'Heigho! 
I  never  thought  of  it  that  way, 
I'll  give  them  both  a  holiday." 


AUGUST 


AUGUST 

/      pvROWSING  o'er  my  sainted  briar, 
A-^    Dreaming  dreams  of  Heart's  Desire, 
Dreaming  'neath  the  August  sun, 
Thus  my  meditations  run  — 
What  if  that  great  Ember  bright 
Were  a  monster  Pipe  alight, 
Or  the  glowing  from  afar 
Of  some  Fire-God's  cigar? 
If  the  Smoker's  Peace  abide 
In  that  sun  fire,  multiplied 
By  its  vastness,  I  will  be 
Henceforth  a  devout  Parsee. 


vj&g&i^^  ;.&^  •  -"-  •^^w'  -^"^^^ 


as  *a 


SEPTEMBER 


SEPTEMBER 

AS  the  smoker  sometimes  sees 
In  Nicotian  reveries 
Features  of  some  Lovely  Girl 
In  the  tinted  wreaths  that  curl 
From  his  pipe;  so,  as  we  gaze 
Through  the  soft  September  haze 
In  the  years'  calm  afternoon 
Red  with  summer's  ashes  strewn, 
Through  the  tender  veil  of  mist, 
Woven  gold  and  amethyst, 
Summer's  charming  ghost  we  see 
Decked  in  Indian  panoply. 


OCTOBER 


(y 

^  OCTOBER 

SAY !  October,  how  in  thunder 
Do  you  keep  so  young,  I  wonder? 
You're  no  chicken,  and  you  know  it, 
Yet,  pld  man,  for  all  you  show  it, 
You  might,  on  a  sunny  day, 
Pass  for  April  or  for  May. 
See,  your  house  is  falling  round  you, 
Yet  you're  laughing-  -say!  confound  you, 
What's  the  secret?      How'd  you  do  it? 
Mist  and  moisture  ?     Ah,  I  knew  it ! 
A  pipe!     A  mug!  October  brew, 
Fill  up  -  -  October  -  -  here ' s  to  you ! 


ffi':/l 


NOVEMBER 


NOVEMBER, 

WHO'S  that  pedler  at  the  door? 
What!      November,   back  once 

more? 

Why,  it  seems  but  yesterday 
That  he  took  himself  away! 
Say  I'm  out!     Tell  him  to  go! 
He  has  nothing  new  to  show. 
Same  old  lay-out  every  trip, 
Same  Pneumonia,  same  old  Grippe, 
Same  old  Hard  Luck  tales  to  tell, 
Same  Thanksgiving  Day — oh,  well, 
Show  him  in-  -then  stir  the  log 

And  bring  church-warden  pipes  and  grog. 

nmvERsrrr  OF  cALrFonfciA 


DECEMBER 


DECEMBER 

PROUDLY  beams  the  Christmas  Tree 
In  its  tinsel  finery. 
Round  and  round  in  sprightly  pairs 
Children  dance  to  old-time  airs— 
Though  they  laugh  they  make  no  sound; 
Dancing,  still  they  tread  no  ground. 
Naught  but  airy  phantoms  they 
Of  a  vanished  Christmas  Day, 
Ancient  playmates  found  again 
In  a  smoke  wreath's  purple  skein, 
And  they  whisper  in  my  ear, 
'  Does  Christmas  still  come  once  a  year  ? ' 


